Nine For Mortal Men
by Yatzstar
Summary: A series of short stories on the misadventures of the Nazgul as they traverse Middle-Earth in the late Third Age. Suggestions are welcome!
1. Chapter 1 - The Black Gates

**Alrighty, this will be the kickstarter to what will hopefully become a series of the Ringwraith's misadventures in Middle-Earth. It might stray into crackfic territory at times, so you have been warned. I'll do my best to give all nine of them unique personalities, but since there's nine of them...that's a lot. But I'll do my best. Also, like last time, suggestions are open. Thanks, and enjoy!**

A most curious bunch, those Ring-Bearers were, thought Gothmog as he observed several cloaked figures approaching the Black Gates. The Orc commander counted five in all, each wearing an identical dark cloak that streamed back over their horses flanks. They did not ride together, but each keeping a safe distance of about twenty meters from the other as they thundered down the dusty, well-worn road.

The five reined in their horses as they neared the Gate, and the emissary of the Dark Lord rode forth to meet them. A squad of Orcs was stationed on either side of the path, in case the hooded figures should take a dislike to the Mouth of the Dark One.

"My Master Sauron the Great bids you welcome," Said the emissary from his pale horse. His eyes were invisible behind his helmet, and only his disfigured mouth was visible. The cloaked figures were silent, each evaluating this being. Once a man, as they had been, but seduced by the darkness.

Finally, the tallest of the riders came forwards.

"I am called Angmar," He stated. His voice was a cold hiss, like wind through treetops. "Ruler of the Northern Kingdoms of Arnor. Who are these others whom you have summoned?"

"They are Ring-Bearers like yourself." The Mouth of Sauron replied. "There are four others yet to arrive. But for now, my Master will see you."

He wheeled his horse about, and barked a command in Black Speech. The great gates creaked, and slowly swung open, revealing the land of Mordor where the shadows lay.

The five riders could see little of the wasteland, but in the distance was a great fire mountain rearing into the clouded sky, smoke belching from its peak. Closer to them was a tall and slender tower, with dividing prongs at the top like a huge two-pronged pitchfork. Situated within these prongs was a great Eye, fiery and fierce, its catlike pupil fixing on the riders and boring through their very souls. The horses whickered and stamped nervously as the thing fixed its gaze on them.

A great voice boomed out, rolling over the plains like thunder. It spoke in the tongue of Mordor, a broken, corrupted language.

_"__Nine for mortal Men doomed to die." _The voice said, sending prickles down the spines of every Orc present. _"Show me that you are who you say you are."_

The riders glanced at one another momentarily, then one by one dismounted. The tallest, whose horse bore the trappings of Rhûn, started pulling his black robe over his head. The others followed suite.

A murmur of shock rippled through the Orc ranks, as the black robes fell to the dust to reveal…nothing.

"What is this black magic?" Shouted one Orc, gripping his spear. "These newcomers are playing us for fools!"

What the Orc had failed to notice was, though there was no visible body where the riders were standing, their eyes could still be seen faintly, glowing red like coals. Five pairs of calculating crimson orbs fixed on the Orc, narrowing coldly.

There was a singing hiss, coupled with a flash of silver, and the Orc stiffened. The Easterling's dagger was buried up to its hilt in the unfortunate's throat, the tip protruding several inches from the back of his neck. His comrades stumbled backwards, as the Orc collapsed in the dust.

There came a pleased hiss from the Great Eye, still gazing over the plains as the Easterling retrieved his dagger. All the Orcs saw were the pale crimson eyes moving towards them coupled with the small displacement of dust where he stepped. They nearly tripped over themselves in their haste to back up as the rider tugged his blade from the Orc's throat, and wiped calmly it on the unfortunate's tunic.

_"__Good, good," _The Eye rumbled in satisfaction, tinged with a hint of cruel amusement. _"I welcome you into the ranks of Mordor."_

The five riders pulled their robes back on and mounted their steeds once more. They had no trouble passing through the Orc ranks, as none of the creatures dared to get within five meters of the newcomers now.

"You, Easterling," The Mouth of Sauron called, wheeling his pale horse about to flank the five figures as they entered the Black Gates. "What is your name?"

The Easterling was silent, evaluating the emissary of Sauron. His eyes were barely visible under his hood, but they bored into the masked ambassador with an unequaled intensity.

"My name," He said at last, "Is Khamûl."


	2. Chapter 2 - How Many

**Alrighty, the first two or three chapters here are going to be mostly character development, so hopefully that won't be too boring :) Enjoy! Also, a guest appearance by everyone's favorite Rohan creepster!**

The moon hung in the sky like a great silver coin, gazing down over Middle-Earth as the Mariner Eärendil made his nightly journey across the arc of forever. The land of Gondor slept peacefully under the still spring night, oblivious to the nine dark riders infiltrating the land of Kings, passing swiftly over the plains and into Rohan.

Angmar sat atop his steed, cloaked and hooded in black to disguise their presence to any mortal. Behind him trailed eight others, each clad in the same manner. It had taken some time for the other four Ring-Bearers to arrive at Mordor, but once they had, they had received instruction from the Dark Lord as to what their task was.

Seek out the One, and bring it to the land of shadows. Fail, and suffer a fate worse than death.

The Witch-King glanced back to see the Easterling Khamûl conversing in hushed tones with Indûr, ruler of the Southlands. Indûr possessed a quite curious personality—he was cold and calculating, much like Khamûl, but he was not above making the occasional sarcastic remark. Highly intelligent, like all the Nazgûl, he was an expert with the twin swords he carried strapped across his back.

The other six Ringwraiths rode for the most part in silence-Akhôrahil and Adûnphel, the bow-wielding duo of the island kingdom of Númenor, Adûnphel being the only female of the Nine. Despite this, she didn't take any nonsense from anyone, and was easily amused. Behind them were Dwar, Ûvatha and Hoarmûrath, the rulers of the ancient kingdoms of Arnor. They had governed Rhudaur, Arthedain and Cardolan respectively in life. The last was Mûrazôr, the most soft-spoken of the Nine. Though quiet, he was a stone-cold killer, wielding a peculiar weapon consisting of a pair of swords joined at the hilt, which he could spin at high speeds to create a windmill of death to anyone unfortunate enough to be within reach.

Angmar was wondering how a group of kings who had so little in common could have ever come together, when he caught the whisper of displaced air in the undergrowth at the side of the path. Reining in his horse, the Witch-King listened intently as the eight others halted in confusion, spurs clinking and horses whooshing in complaint at the sudden stop. Adûnphel started to ask what was going on, but Angmar held up a gauntlet-clad hand for silence. He looked over to where the scent of Man was wafting heavily from behind a clump of hawthorn bushes, and pointed towards it.

Mûrazôr and Ûvatha of Arthedain understood the command and dismounted, Mûrazôr drawing his double-bladed sword and Ûvatha slinging his spear off of his back. They vanished like twin phantoms into the undergrowth, footsteps noiseless and feather-light.

Within moments, there came a shrill scream of terror, and two bodies hit the dirt path. Angmar's keen gaze caught the stallion of Rohan emblazoned on an armored chestplate, but the second figure cringed and shrank back, only to be met with Ûvatha's spearpoint.

Angmar dismounted, and approached the two. The first, obviously a soldier of Rohan, tried to put on a bold face, though his long hunting dagger had been relieved of him. The second was clearly no fighter—he cowered in his long robes, covering his head with his hands.

"Well done, sons of Rohan." Angmar sneered, approaching them slowly. The trick to weakening an enemy was to scare them first. "You have found the servants of Sauron."

The soldier swallowed, his eyes wide with fear. He managed to stammer out,

"Th-Theoden King will stop you!"

Angmar allowed a cruel smile to cross his features, though he knew the two mortals would see nothing save darkness under his hood. He rolled the second figure over with his boot, exposing his face.

The Ring-Bearer knew instantly that this mortal was a servant of the Dark One's forces. He had stringy black hair, and wide hungry eyes. He was gaunt and pale, his face etched in a permanent scowl, though he was terrified to the point of incompetence, shaking like a leaf under the cold gaze of the nine Nazgûl.

Angmar dismissed him as unimportant, and turned back to the soldier.

"Go!" He barked, startling the son of Rohan. "Tell your King that we are passing through his lands. If he wishes to try and stop us, he may. We could use the entertainment."

As the two scrambled to their feet and took off at a panicked run down the night-darkened path, Angmar mounted his horse and watched them go.

"Tell me," He inquired, as Mûrazôr and Ûvatha sheathed weapons and mounted their steeds, "How many mouths are required to deliver a message?"

Akhôrahil unslung his bow and notched a shaft to the string. He pulled it back to his jaw, aiming down the black-feathered shaft at the back of the rapidly-retreating soldier of Rohan, running just behind the cloaked figure.

"One."

And Akhôrahil of Númenor never missed.


	3. Chapter 3 - King of the Were-Cats

**A/N: Alright, more character development! I delayed in posting this one because I wasn't quite satisfied with it, but I've got other ideas that will hopefully work. And yes, once summer rolls around, I will do some more Thranduil/Tauriel, since people seem to have abandoned me after I stopped that one. Ah well, everyone's a critic :D I'll just keep writing!**

"Someday, we'll look back on this and laugh."

"Well it was your sorry lack of hearing that got us into this mess!"

"I'll have you know, I can hear perfectly well! I was just not paying attention at the time!"

Akhôrahil and Adûnphel, the two Ring-Bearers of Númenor, sat pinioned back to back in the loam, hands tied together at the wrists. They had been relieved of weapons, though the first of their captors to attempt removing their hoods had gotten his hand bitten down to the bone by Adûnphel. The female Nazgûl almost wished she had allowed them to remove their hoods, just to laugh at the shocked look on their faces as they beheld the lack of any visible head beneath the fabric.

"You have tried contacting the others, haven't you?" She inquired to her mate, glancing back at him.

"I would not risk it," Akhôrahil replied, staring into the night-dark forest. "These skin-changers have extremely sensitive ears that would probably detect any noise I made that was above the pitch of Man's hearing."

"Oi, shut up over there!" Came a hoarse shout from somewhere in the trees. "The King'll want to see you soon, so shut your yap or I'll shut it for you!"

Akhôrahil, scowled, grumbling curses against the skin-changers. He had encountered some of their species in the far North once, but these were a different breed, making their home in the hill country of Gondor, known among Men as Pinnath Gelin. Though apparently content to be ignored by the Men of Gondor, the skin-changers did not take lightly to intruders on their territory, as the rulers of ancient Númenor had found out the hard way.

Just then, there came the swift thud of several footfalls on the dirt, and six large cats burst into the clearing. Not the housecats the Ringwraiths were familiar with in life, but the large hunting cats only heard of in the jungles of the deep South, or the remote areas untouched by the two-legged races.

The largest of them, a huge, sleek black feline stepped forwards. His amber eyes glittered with intelligence, and the tip of his snakelike tail flicked absently. He stood up on his hind legs, the cat's form melting away until there stood a tall, broad-shouldered humanoid with close-cropped dark hair and a pale complexion. His eyes were still a cat's though, amber with slit pupils that dilated and contracted as he studied the newcomers. He was clad in only a pair of worn trousers, the hems shredded long ago, and a short sword hung at his side.

"Who are you that would intrude upon my lands." He growled. It wasn't a question—more of a direct order. This one was clearly used to getting his own way, Adûnphel thought. The two Ringwraiths just glared at the newcomer in stony silence.

The dark-haired man's nostrils flared. "You will answer me! I am Pardus, King of the Pinnath Gelin skin-changers!"

"Oh, look at that Akhôrahil," Adûnphel commented before Akhôrahil could stop her, "He knows his own name! Must have taken him simply ages to remember it."

Pardus snarled in anger, lunging forwards to send his foot slamming into the Ringwraith's stomach, driving the wind from her. She gagged and coughed for several moments, as the skin-changer looked on in satisfaction. Akhôrahil felt a deep rage boiling in his gut, against the one who would dare harm his kin.

Adûnphel recovered herself, and looked up at the skin-changer.

"Well, you're quite the warrior, aren't you?" She remarked, a hint of a sneer in her voice. "We're very dangerous enemies, tied up and weaponless like this. Only the bravest would attack a prisoner who is unable to defend themselves, I've heard."

Pardus's lip curled, exposing his fangs, though for the moment he was lost for words in his anger. Adûnphel spoke instead.

"How about letting us go, and getting a taste of real warriors? Or would the kitty prefer its prey helpless instead?"

Pardus let out a feral screech and lunged forwards, drawing his sword and driving it into the Wraith's chest. She stiffened in shock for a few moments, then shuddered and went limp in her black robes.

Akhôrahil barely had time to register what had just happened, before the skin-changer was sheathing his sword and ordering his guards.

"Throw that carcass in the ditch." He told them, as though nothing had happened. "I shall deal with the other one."

Akhôrahil tensed every muscle in his body as rage boiled in his gut, but he forced himself to sit still as the skin-changers severed the bonds holding his mate to him. Then as soon as her weight was gone, he flew at Pardus with a furious shriek, headbutting him hard in the face. His hands were still tied behind his back, but he made full use of the rest of his body, lowering his shoulder and bulling hard into the skin-changer, sending them both to the ground. Pardus screeched in fear and anger, and his four remaining guards dogpiled onto the Wraith, hauling him forcefully off their King. It took all of them to restrain Akhôrahil, flinging him spread-eagled in the dirt and sitting on his arms and legs to keep him down.

Pardus got to his feet, nursing a bloodied nose. He gave the Ringwraith a murderous glare, lips curled back over his teeth, then drew his sword once more.

"You will pay for these insults, outsider," He snarled savagely as he advanced.

-ooo-

Two of Pardus's guards dragged the limp form of Adûnphel through the loam and grass, to a dry streambed perhaps three-hundred meters from the clearing. What they failed to notice, was the flicker of crimson beneath the hood.

_What imbeciles, _Adûnphel thought in cruel amusement. _They don't know that no living man may hinder me. I'll show these clods._

The two guards reached the edge of the ditch, and prepared to heave the limp weight into the mud and briars that enveloped the bottom. It took both of them to send the body tumbling into the brush, where the black robes fluttered limply.

One of the guards, a sandy-haired female of the mountainous cats, peered down into the night-dark ditch.

"Oi, what's that?" She asked, waving her comrade back from where he had been turning to leave. "It don't look like there's anything down there, see?"

Her companion narrowed his eyes, gazing down at the black robes that lay limp in the ditch mud. His pupils dilated in fear.

"Where's it go?" He growled nervously, unwilling to go down the steep embankment and check.

The female's keen eyes caught the flicker of pale crimson out of the corner of her eye, but when she turned towards it, nothing was there.

"Let's get out of here," She said fearfully, but her comrade halted her.

"Where'd your dagger go?"

Her hand went to her hip, where normally a long hunting dagger was kept, but now the sheath was empty.

Fear ran like ice water down her spine, as the wind whispered in the undergrowth and the shadows flickered about them.

_Crack!_

The she-cat jumped at the noise, but her companion just stiffened. It took her a moment to see the tip of a dagger—_her dagger—_protruding from his chest. It retracted sharply, and the male crumpled, twitching in his death throes. In his place was a pair of crimson eyes glowing like coals in the dark, embedded in a formless head on a formless body. The dagger lifted, held by an unseen hand, and flashed in the moonlight as it slashed once.

-ooo-

Akhôrahil struggled uselessly against the four skin-changers holding him down. The blade of Pardus wouldn't kill him, but it would be extremely painful. The Ringwraith tried one last-ditch effort—he inhaled, and let out a high screech that passed far above the pitch of human hearing. The were-cats cried out, clutching their ears in pain. Pardus dropped his sword, snarling in agony.

Akhôrahil ran out of breath and stopped, panting. The skin-changers were kneeling on his limbs, preventing any escape, but they were incapacitated momentarily. Pardus recovered first, and picked up his sword. His amber eyes were alight with fury, though it was clear his ears were still ringing.

"You will pay for that, Wraith!" He snarled in wrath, raising his sword.

Without warning, there came a sharp clacking noise, and the skin-changer pinning Akhôrahil's left arm lurched, letting out a gurgling cry. Akhôrahil craned his neck to see several strings wrapped about his throat, weighted on the end with metal balls. The thongs had whipped about the neck, the balls thudding hard against the sides of his head.

The skin-changer toppled over, and the Ringwraith lost no time. With his arm freed, he sent his gauntlet-clad hand crashing into the nose of the were-cat on his right, sending the unfortunate sprawling with blood erupting from his smashed nose. Akhôrahil took advantage of the shock of the other two and jerked his legs free, swiftly sending his metal boot coverings smashing into their respective faces. Both toppled backwards with several teeth missing.

Akhôrahil leaped to his feet, as another dark shape dropped from the trees nearby. The Ringwraith recognized Dwar of Rhudaur as he retrieved his bolas from about the neck of the skin-changer he had incapacitated.

"Where've you been?" Akhôrahil hissed as he backed swiftly up before Pardus recovered from his shock.

"Dodging the rest of that mangy tribe!" Dwar shot back, as Pardus charged with a shriek of rage. He feinted a lunge, then dropped his sword and morphed into a cat like a flash. He caught the Ringwraith off-guard, sending Dwar stumbling backwards as the great black feline hit him full-on in the chest. Akhôrahil picked up the other Wraith's fallen bolas as he grappled with the cat, managing to heave the beast off and into the undergrowth.

"Come on Akhôrahil! We'd best make tracks, otherwise we'll have several scores of angry skin-changers on our backs!" Dwar urged, but Akhôrahil hesitated.

"What about Adûnphel?"

"She's a fine lass! She can take care of herself!" Dwar insisted , spinning his fellow Wraith around and pushing him in the opposite direction from Pardus.

Akhôrahil had no choice but to go along with Dwar as he raced through the trees. Though he had no doubt that Adûnphel could manage, he still worried. Mostly because she tended to get into situations that, while highly entertaining for her, would usually involve having to run away as fast as possible.

Dwar led Akhôrahil for almost half a mile through the trees and scrubland, before they reached the place where their horses were tethered. Of the nine beasts, only four had riders.

"Angmar and Khamûl went looking for you," Dwar informed him. "They haven't gotten back get, though they may have gotten your signal."

As if on cue, the two Wraiths in question burst into the clearing, breathing heavily.

"You made it!" Khamûl gasped, "Where's Adûnphel?"

"Um—" Akhôrahil stammered, "I don't know."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Angmar demanded, swinging himself into the saddle. "If we don't leave now, we'll have that entire tribe on our tails!"

Before Akhôrahil could worry further, there came a thrashing in the wood, crowing closer by the second. Dwar started twirling his bolas, but when the figure emerged, it was a ghostly woman clad in white. Her black robes were slung over one arm, and in the other she held the swords of herself and Akhôrahil, relieved of them at their capture.

"Adûnphel!" Akhôrahil exclaimed, enveloping her in a bear hug.

"Ach, get off me you great lump!" Adûnphel grumbled as she jabbed her elbows into his ribs, though Akhôrahil could tell she was glad to see him.

"Well, I believe it is clear that the Pinnath Gelin hills are devoid of the One," Angmar spoke up. "We should try North, over the Mountains. Rohan is a large place, full of living Men whose kind seem to stumble across the One a disproportionate amount of times. They are greedy, and would likely keep the Ring under lock and key, making it easier for us as it will not be moving."

Just then pinpricks swept across the forms of the Nine Kings, as a great gaze settled on them from the East. The horses snorted and champed anxiously, as the great Eye scanned their beings, gathering a report of their findings. Once it reached the lack of any Ring of Power, it turned away to the North in disinterest.

Akhôrahil and Adûnphel mounted their horses, touching their crowns in salute to Angmar and signaling that they were ready to go. The Lord of the Nazgûl chirped to his steed, kicking it into a swift gallop.

Arda slept under the radiant gaze of the last flower of Telperion as the East turned inwards in brooding, and the Nine Riders thundered northwards atop fell steeds. Eärendil kept watch over the land from his path in the void of forever, sailing ever Eastward to meet his beloved Elwing at the end of his journey.


End file.
